


The Lonely King

by bzp (orphan_account)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Apologies, BAMF Bilbo, BAMF Dwarves, Bilbo Baggins is sassy, Brothers Ri feels, Dwalin and Nori - Freeform, Dwarves in the Shire, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone lives after BOFA, Fili and Kili are the littlest shits, Gandalf is amused, He can't even, He's having none of Thorin's shit, Lindir is just so done with dwarves, M/M, Nori is a Little Shit, Regret, Slowburn Bagginshield, Spoilers for the book/movies, Then continue after BOFA, Then tell the whole story from meeting Bilbo to reclaiming Erebor, This will start off after BOFA, Thorin really needs a compass, nori feels, thranduil is not amused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bzp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were many ways to describe Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
<p>“Loyal to a fault,” his close friend and advisor, Balin, would say gently.<br/>“Stubborn as a mule,” his best friend Dwalin would say, loudly enough for Thorin to hear.<br/>“Grumpy as a bear,” his nephew Kili would whisper, ever fearing his uncle’s glare.<br/>“King Under the Mountain,” his people would proclaim, and indeed he was.</p>
<p>But there was one word only those closest to the king would use to describe him. One word that summed up the pain in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.</p>
<p>“Lonely.”</p>
<p> <br/>And how could he not be when his heart was all the way across Middle Earth, carried by a simple hobbit from the rolling hills of the Shire?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King and his Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> The basic plan for this story will be as follows:
> 
> \- Start off in Erebor a few years after BOFA (Chapter 1)  
> \- Go back to the start of the journey to reclaim Erebor (developing relationships, explaining backstories...etc)  
> \- Back to Erebor after BOFA
> 
> The journey to reclaim Erebor will be explained in its entirety before returning to Erebor after BOFA. I intend for this to be a relatively long story, and hopefully, I'll be able to post fairly regularly. After that, we'll go back to Thorin in Erebor and figure out what he plans to do about his broken heart.
> 
> This story is Bagginshield centric, but there will be parts in the POVs of other dwarves. There is also a pretty strong secondary story going on between Dwalin and Nori, but I'll talk more about that when it happens.
> 
> There will be some graphic scenes of a sexual nature in later chapters, as well as some violence...etc, and I'll try to post warnings wherever applicable.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

There were many ways to describe Thorin Oakenshield.

“Loyal to a fault,” his close friend and advisor, Balin, would say gently.

“Stubborn as a mule,” his best friend Dwalin would say, loudly enough for Thorin to hear.

“Grumpy as a bear,” his nephew Kili would whisper, ever fearing his uncle’s glare.

“King Under the Mountain,” his people would proclaim, and indeed he was.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

It had been three years since Thorin and his company had taken Erebor back from Smaug. The days following the dragon’s demise, and after what was now referred to as the Battle of Five Armies, had been full of hardship. There had been casualties beyond count and devastating damage in the halls where the line of Durin had once proudly reigned. Thorin himself had been bedridden for months after the battle, healing slowly but steadily. To the great relief of his friends and kin, he eventually made a full recovery. Now, the only remnants of the injuries that once threatened his life were a slight limp on his left and a scattering of deep scars across his chest. Immediately upon being declared fit enough to walk, Thorin had promptly thrown himself into the restoration of the mountain.

A year later, his hard work and toil was rewarded. He stood on the upper balcony with his nephews by his side and watched the first caravans of his people returning to the home they had once been so viciously torn from.

The months after the first caravans arrived were filled with negotiations, trade agreements and restoration. Tensions between the dwarves of Erebor and the woodland elves were high, with Thranduil and Thorin still unable to make amends. The dwarves and the people of Laketown, however, were slowly making progress towards becoming allies.

Bard, the bowman who had ultimately slayed Smaug with a black arrow, had been given the majority of Bilbo Baggins’ share of the treasure. This was, of course, per the hobbit’s request before he left Erebor to return to the Shire. The treasure was to be used to help the people of Laketown, which had been all but destroyed by Smaug’s corpse falling from the sky. After the Master deserted the town (with a large portion of gold meant to aid the townspeople), Thorin allowed Bard to rebuild Dale with the remaining gold, and Bard was appointed King of Dale. Trade now flowed freely between the mountain and the town of men, both working together to return to their former glory.

And yet, the simple little hobbit who had made all this possible was not around to see the result of his sacrifices. Bilbo had left immediately after the battle, heading back to the gently rolling hills of the Shire.

Thorin had not seen or heard from his former burglar since apologizing to him from what had almost been his deathbed after the battle. While he couldn’t remember much of what happened in the first months following the battle, having been unconscious for much of them, Thorin could still see Bilbo in his mind’s eye. The hobbit had cried by his side, gentle creature that he was, and the deep look of pain in his hazel eyes as he had looked over Thorin’s broken body was one Thorin would rather forget.

The memory of what Thorin had done to the halfling, casting him out for trying only to save the gold-maddened dwarf, kept the Thorin away from the treasury hall. He no longer felt drawn to the gold within the vast hall, instead feeling sick with grief when he thought of it. The gold in that room was supposed to have been his reward after the quest. Instead, it had been his burden, stealing from him something far more precious than all the gold in Middle Earth.

It had stolen his One.

Dwarves only loved once in their lives, a love so deep and strong that it transcended beyond physical boundaries. The very heart itself was overcome with this love, the soul incomplete without it. Thorin had never thought he would experience the pull of his One, having spent most of his life without it. It took Bilbo leaving for him to realize how deeply in love he had truly been with the hobbit, and to finally accept that he had found his One.

But Bilbo was gone now, and without him, Thorin was a shell of the dwarf he could be.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Yes, there were many ways to describe Thorin Oakenshield.

“Broody,” the king’s advisors would mutter.

“Handsome,” the dwarrowdams would giggle.

“Tiny,” the elven king Thranduil would declare.

But there was one word only those closest to the king would use to describe him. One word that summed up the pain in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

“Lonely.”


	2. And So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is where our story actually begins, back at the start of the journey to reclaim Erebor. This will mainly explain the thoughts of each character and give some back story. The actual plot will start progressing by the next chapter, which I will post as soon as it’s ready (within the next day or so), so we can see things start moving along.
> 
> As for my time frame of posting chapters, I will try to post at least once a week. For the next month or so, I may be able to post more often, but when September rolls around, I won’t have as much time to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_Five years earlier…_

As of late, Thorin found that he could only see red.

The fire lapped up from the forge in front of him, heating the metal in his hand to a burning hot red, and his thoughts drifted.

Smaug had been red. It was a fitting colour for a dragon, really. It was the same colour of the fire the beast had wrought on Erebor. The trees had been roaring with red fire as the dwarves were driven from their homes those many years ago.

It was also the colour of blood. Indeed, Smaug had left that in his wake.

Even more fittingly, it was the colour of rage. Thorin knew that all too well. Bringing his hammer down on the heated metal, Thorin’s memories came back to him.

The burning bodies of dwarves littering the fire-lit streets.

WHACK! He brought the hammer down.

The traitorous elven king on his blasted elk, turning away when the dwarfs needed their elven allies the most.

WHACK! He brought the hammer down again.

Watching the guards drag the bodies of those who had starved to death during the last winter in Ered Luin to the mass grave.

CRACK! He brought the hammer down so hard, it broke.

Staring at the broken handle in his hand, Thorin knew what he needed to do.

The wizard he had met in Bree not a day ago had the right idea of things. He was a king without a kingdom, and his people were suffering in the streets.

“You must take back your homeland,” the wizard, Gandalf, had said solemnly.

Thorin knew he was right.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Dwalin had never been afraid to show his temper.

As a dwarfling, he would rage and shout when he was angry. More than once, he had taken his frustrations out on the poor wall in his bedroom.

Nowadays, he tended to punch dwarves rather than walls. Of course, he was Captain of the guards now, and they were criminals (mostly), so technically, that just meant he was good at his job.

Really good at his job.

All that aside, it was true that Dwalin wore his emotions on his sleeve for the world to see. So the fact that he was quietly sitting by the fire after the bombshell Thorin had dropped earlier terrified Balin to no end.

“Could I get you anything, brother?” Balin asked hesitantly.

Dwalin didn’t answer.

“Some tea perhaps? Ale?”

Again, no response.

“I have some plates you could throw, if it’ll make you feel better,” he tried again.

Dwalin let out a sigh.

“This is a suicide mission,” he muttered under his breath, so quietly Balin almost missed it.

“Aye, that it is.”

“It’ll be nice to see the Mountain again though, before I die,” he continued.

“Aye, it would…wait, what -”

“Dragon fire would be a quick death anyways. Better than being stabbed by a thief in the night,” Dwalin drawled on, ignoring Balin’s sputtering in the background.

“You can’t seriously be considering this! It’s madness!” Balin nearly shouted.

“Aye,” was the only response he got.

And from Dwalin, that was the only response Balin needed. It was clear he had made up his mind.

Dwalin had never been a man of many words.

“Well then, I’d better arrange for someone to take over for me at the library,” Balin said, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“You aren’t coming,” Dwalin said, rising to his feet, but Balin silenced him with a finger wave.

“Tut-tut now, brother. You’ll need someone with a head on their shoulders if you’ve any hope of making it even past Bree,” Balin said, taking a seat at his writing desk. He’d need to make arrangements immediately if they were to leave when Thorin planned. He could feel Dwalin gaping behind him.

He almost missed the whispered “thank you” before Dwalin left.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Gloin was a proud dwarf. Prouder than any dwarf in Ered Luin, he’d wager.

And why shouldn’t he be?

Who wouldn’t be proud to be married to the most beautiful dwarrowdam Middle Earth had ever seen? With her hair intricately braided and her beard the envy of Gloin himself, how could anyone not fall madly in love with his wife?

And then, of course, there was Gimli.

Dwarven pregnancies were difficult, and dwarflings were often born small and undernourished. Ered Luin was not a place of prosper by far, and most of its inhabitants toiled endlessly with scarcely enough to eat.

But not Gimli. He was born screaming, with a shock of red hair and chubby as could be. His shrieking could be heard for miles, Gloin was sure of it. He went on and on for hours at the pub the night Gimli was born, talking about the little lad.

Lungs of steel, his Gimli.

Hair as red as flame.

Grip stronger than that of a full grown dwarf.

Gloin had loved deeply in his life, but he never knew a love quite as strong as what he had for his son.

Now 62 years of age, Gimli was still a source of awe to his father.

It was for this reason that Gloin knew he had to join the quest to retake Erebor.

He had fought with himself for days, weighing the pros and cons. He couldn’t stand to leave his wife behind, couldn’t bear to be parted from his son. And yet, how could he not go? Poverty ran rampant in the streets of Ered Luin. There were no jobs to be found and no opportunities for a dwarf like Gimli to make something of himself. Gloin had some money tucked away, enough to keep his family fed, but for how long? Times were only getting more difficult.

He needed to go, so that his son could have a future. So that his wife could live the life she deserved, a life filled with luxury.

He needed to do this for the sake of his family.

Gloin would do anything for his family.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Gloin was going on the quest to Erebor.

That was enough reason for Oin to go.

A healer’s place, after all, was with the sick.

And no one was sicker in the head than this group of fools, who would march willingly to visit a dragon.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Ever since the Battle of Azanulbizar, the general consensus about Bifur had been that he had lost his mind.

The axe sticking out of his head had encouraged that opinion.

The fact that he could no longer speak Westron had sealed it.

But in Bifur’s opinion, he was saner than ever.

He heard everything people said in front of him, thinking he wouldn’t understand. He heard all the whispers behind his back. He hated that he was a source of pity, and that people didn’t bother even trying to communicate with him, simply writing him off as if he were something broken and useless.

He wasn’t broken. He didn’t need to be fixed.

He just needed people to be patient.

Like his cousins.

Bofur and Bombur had taken care of Bifur ever since he’d been injured. Bofur would sit next to him and tell him stories, not minding if sometimes Bifur zoned out, or didn’t answer back. He was never angry with Bifur, and never frustrated when the dwarf couldn’t articulate his thoughts the way he wanted to. When Bifur realized he could no longer be a soldier because of his injury, Bofur showed him how to carve wooden figures and how to make toys.

Bombur, meanwhile, had always shown how much he cared for his older cousin with small acts of kindness. He would go out of his way to find fresh vegetables so that he could make Bifur’s favourite soups. He would bring home fresh picked flowers for Bifur to snack on, taking the time to find out which were edible and which Bifur liked best.

Bifur loved his cousins. They understood him.

They knew he wasn’t broken, just….different.

It was late one evening when Bofur had come running in, yammering about a quest to Erebor with Thorin Oakenshield. Bofur had always been the adventurous type, never content to sit in one place. Bifur knew his cousin had long since tired of living in dreary Ered Luin, that he wanted to see more of the world in his lifetime. When Bombur agreed that a change of scenery would be nice, Bifur’s mind was made up.

He was going to Erebor.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Silently he crept through the dimly lit streets of Ered Luin, like a cat stalking its prey.

He slid through the alleys with practiced ease, peering behind corners and archways, his eyes never leaving the small dwarf scuffling slowly down the street.

It was late, and the cold nip in the air penetrated through the ragged clothes on his back. Still, he pressed on, careful to avoid detection. He couldn’t afford to be seen, not with the bounty out on his head. That bounty had been courtesy of the Captain of the guards, Dwalin Fundinson, a thorn in his side for years. Of course, that alone wouldn’t have deterred him too much. Escaping the guards had never been a problem.

Unfortunately, now there was also a bounty out **_for_** his head - just the head.

And that one had been put there by some less then favourable dwarves - the kind who weren’t above going after a dwarf’s family to get their revenge.

Sighing with relief as the small dwarf he had been following finally reached his destination, he let his guard down for a moment - only a moment. Just enough time for the small dwarf to knock on the door of his house and be let in by another, who immediately started fussing over the him, interrogating him over why he wasn’t wearing his mittens, and why he had been home ten minutes later than usual.

Letting out a small chuckle at the antics of the older dwarf, he turned to leave, satisfied that the little dwarf had made it home safe. His mirth, however, quickly died as he saw what stood behind him - who had managed to sneak up on him.

“Nori,” Dwalin said with a sneer, “what a pleasant surprise.”

Nori quickly reached for his blade, only to be grabbed and lifted up roughly by his collar.

“That’s enough, Dwalin,” a deep voice behind him ordered, stepping out into view.

Nori recognized the dwarf instantly.

“Master Oakenshield,” he drawled, adjusting his shirt as Dwalin released him, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have need of your….talents,” Thorin said, “and I may be willing to pardon your crimes if you’ll assist me.”

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Ori was a shy dwarf.

He preferred his books over other dwarves and his privacy over the social scene.

He was also very strong of spirit.

Unfortunately, neither of his brothers seemed to believe this.

Dori and Nori had raised Ori after their mother had died in childbirth. Nori was a very lax parental figure, preferring to keep Ori happy over anything else. Sneaking sweets into little Ori’s pockets and bringing him toys had been Nori’s way of showing love. Dori, meanwhile, fussed over the younger dwarf like a mother hen. He made sure Ori ate his vegetables and washed behind his ears, keeping the smaller dwarf as sheltered as he could from the dangers of the big bad world.

Nori had often argued with Dori over his sheltering ways, but he was really no better.

He was following Ori right now.

Of course, unlike Dori, Nori hid in the shadows.

He followed the younger dwarf as he made his way home from the library, staying in the alleyways, careful to avoid detection. Ori wasn’t supposed to know he was there, but he had always had a sixth sense when it came to his older brother. Besides, it had been years since he’d even spoken to Nori, so it was good to know he was okay, even if they hadn’t actually made any contact with each other.

It had been just over two years ago that Dori had thrown Nori out for good. Nori had always been sticky handed, and he and Dori had fought about it constantly. Then Nori had gone off and gotten involved with some very bad dwarves. Dori had found out about his new associates after Nori was caught and arrested. Nori had been sentenced to lose his right hand for his part in the burglary job he had been participating in, but he had managed to escape from his cell the night before.

He had come home that night to tell Dori he would be going away for a while and to say goodbye to Ori, only to have Dori literally toss him out, banning him from every stepping foot in their house again.

Dori had disowned Nori as a brother that night, slamming the door on Nori as he pleaded for a chance to explain.

Ori had tried to go after him, but when he saw Dori break down by the door, he knew his brother hadn’t hurt Nori out of spite.

Dori would not put Ori at risk, not even for Nori, who had made his own bad choices.

Ori loved both his brothers, but he couldn’t fault Dori for trying to protect him.

It had been tough having no contact with Nori, but as news spread around town about a bounty for Nori’s life, Ori was relieved that his brother was so well hidden. Someone had ratted out the dwarves Nori had been dealing with, and they believed it to be him. Ori was sure that it hadn’t been Nori, knowing that his brother believed in honour, even if he only had any among thieves. Still, the bounty was there, and Nori’s absence served to keep him safe.

Of course, Nori hadn’t really been absent.

He’d just been quiet in his observations of the house, watching over his brothers from afar. If Dori ever noticed Nori lurking in the shadows, he didn’t say, and Ori never brought it up.

While Ori loved Dori, one thing he truly hated was the way his brother hovered over him ten times more after Nori left.

Ori could barely walk down the street alone. Mahal forbid he was ten minutes late coming home from the library, where he worked in the day under Balin Fundinson as a scribe.

It was for this reason that Ori decided to join Thorin Oakenshield’s quest to reclaim Erebor.

He was strong dwarf, but he was smothered by his brothers’ good-intentions.

He needed to assert himself or he would suffocate.

Dori, however, did not take kindly to his decision.

Dori had raged and begged and pleaded and fussed for the better part of a week before finally giving in and letting Ori go.

The morning Ori was due to leave for the quest, he realized why Dori had given in.

Dori was coming with him.

Oh, Mahal.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Kili had never really known his father.

He had died barely a year after Kili was born.

Fili often spoke well of him and told Kili stories of how their father would play with them and rock them to sleep, but Fili himself hadn’t had enough time to truly know him.

When Kili thought back of the father figures he had in his life, of who had made him into the dwarf he was today, one stood out above the rest.

Uncle Thorin.

Thorin had never been great with kids. He was a sturdy-built dwarf, with large calloused hands and a deep, booming voice. He was made to be a king, a commander of armies.

Yet, he was always there for his nephews.

When Dis went out, it was Thorin who sat with the boys and played toy soldiers. When the boys were sick, it was Thorin who ran to fetch Oin, the town doctor. When the boys were hungry, it was Thorin who worked long days in the forges to keep them fed. Thorin had forged the boys their first swords, and had trained them in forging when they were old enough. Between lessons with Thorin and his best friend, Dwalin, the boys became skilled fighters.

Thorin was the closest thing to a father Kili had ever truly known.

So when he heard about his uncle’s quest, he didn’t even think twice about joining.

Both he and Fili knew what they had to do.

//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\//\\\

Bilbo Baggins was a creature of habit.

And why shouldn’t he be?

Routine was proper, after all, and if Bilbo Baggins was anything, he was proper.

A perfect gentle hobbit.

Respectable as could be.

He had his warm hearth, a fully tummy, and an endless collection of books and maps to read.

What else could a hobbit ask for?

With his second breakfast eaten, and the dishes put away, all that was left for Bilbo to do was have a nice pipe.

Sitting on his bench outside as he stuffed some old Toby into the bowl of his pipe, Bilbo stretched out his legs and took a breath of fresh air.

This was the life.

Glancing down the path leading to his house, Bilbo swore he could make out the shape of one of the tall folk approaching, and…were they wearing a wizard’s hat?

Hm.

How unexpected.


End file.
